The Revelation in the Circumstance
by kataang0508
Summary: <html><head></head>After volunteering to serve the warrant to Sanderson Chemical, Sweets is hunted down and beaten severely. While he waits for Brennan and Booth to find him, Sweets recounts the events of his life and struggles to accept his present predicament. Based off the Season 10 Premiere that broke everyone's heart.</html>


**The Revelation in the Circumstance**

_A/N: Sweets' death in the season 10 premier broke my heart to pieces. I cried horribly during his last few minutes. It was such a heart wrenching scene to watch. I'm honestly still devastated that he died. Dr. Lance Sweets was my favorite character on Bones. His love of psychology is what got me interested in the subject. Because of Sweets, I've taken three psychology classes in college, and I am going to minor in the subject. Sweets also got me through high school. I didn't have very many friends, one to be exact. I wasn't involved in sports or clubs. I was the accelerated nerd who kept to herself. The only thing that I looked forward to during the week was getting to see him on Bones. He made me smile and laugh when no one else could. He was such an amazing character. I know it sounds foolish, but I can't thank him enough for the difference he made in my life. He was a friend that I'll never forget. I'm going to miss his presence on the show. _

"_When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home." ~Tecumseh_

_DISCLAIMER: I don't own Bones... and if I did, I would've begged John Francis Daley to stay. :)_

* * *

><p>He could barely breathe.<p>

Sweets laid on the cold pavement of the parking garage in a crumpled heap. His typically pristine suit was torn and disheveled, his curly hair was matted with dirt and blood from his flesh wounds. His head swirled with dizziness that came from hitting the pavement, and the massive blood loss that accompanied it. He was losing the ability to think clearly, the events that had previously transpired flowing into one another.

When Sweets had entered the parking garage with the warrant to retrieve documents from Sanderson Chemical Corporation, he had been plagued by the sixth sense that someone was following him. Alarmed, he had unsheathed his gun from his holster and concealed it freely under his coat and continued in pursuit of his mission into the building. After all, it was better safe than sorry. Once he had retrieved the documents, he had found his way back into the parking garage. His gaze had been diverted; he was looking at the documents the warrant had served him in his hands. The sound of running feet had him stopping in his tracks.

Three sharp, lethal jabs were all it took to send the young psychologist spiraling backwards.

But Sweets had not gone down without a fight. After the third strike, Sweets' reflexes had reacted by pulling the trigger to his gun. He popped two rounds into his assailant—one in his thigh just below the femoral artery, the other just above the stomach. Nevertheless, his attacker had gotten away, and Sweets had gone down with a clumsy thud.

For a few seconds, he had laid their searching for the breath that had hastily retreated from his lungs. With his free hand that wasn't dangling awkwardly behind him, he nursed his nose with ginger fingers, attempting to stop the bleeding. Well aware of the contusion on his forehead, Sweets forced himself to recall Freud's theory of the psyche for good measure to keep himself alert. It hurt to think, but Sweets knew it was necessary. For seconds, Sweets tried to regain his composure, foolishly thinking that the involuntary act of breathing would return with haste, if he cycled in this routine.

But this was denial, and Sweets, a psychologist, knew this all too well.

Seconds turned into minutes, minutes in which Sweets tried to convince himself that his wounds were superficial. They would only be scars, voices of his trauma, evidence of his bravery. After all, he had experience with both.

His birth mother had been a psychic who travelled with a circus in Florida. She had never wanted him. His birth father had been left to raise Lance alone, but he was an abusive addict himself. Drugs and alcohol were his children, and Lance was the ugly step-child. He had scars from old scrapes that were administered by thrown beer bottles during his father's drunken tangents, and old remodeled memories from being neglected and left to die in a closet.

Lance had been rescued from his silent prison and placed into the foster care system not long after his fourth birthday. While the first foster home had been a reprieve, it was far from perfect. His foster parents were kind, but did not have the patience or means to nurture a special needs child. After Lance's first nightmare, they had called his case worker. He could still remember the conversation that had led to his misplacement; he could remember the disgraceful, mocking terms used to describe him.

The second foster home was probably his favorite. His foster parents welcomed his presence. They countlessly endured his nightmares and panic attacks that occurred at all times of day and night. But his foster mother had died only a few months later from a rare form of rapid cancer, and only his foster father was left to care for him. Needless to say, he reentered the system.

The next two foster homes were no better than his life with his biological father. On his fifth birthday, he was placed with another family who already owned responsibility for three foster children. They had wanted nothing to do with his care. Instead, they pawned him off on their other foster children, interacting with him only when case workers were present. A month later, Lance and the other foster kids had been removed the home, after bruises were discovered on the forearm of his foster sister.

His last foster home had been hell. Here, Lance had received the scars that branded him a special needs victim. Whip marks from a leather belt had been sewn into his shoulders. Their deep, angry marks pierced the skin like a needle into fabric. Lance had no recollection of what he had done to anger his foster father in such a manner, his only guess was his innocent presence.

The scars Sweets had received were a testimony of the cards life had dealt him. His bravery finally rewarded when the Finleys' had adopted him. Though they were much older, they genuinely loved and raised him as their own. They had accepted his scars –the baggage- life had burdened him with and explored the unique talents they knew their son possessed. The Finleys were his true parents. The others had been a sick cosmic mistake.

Sweets gasped audibly from the pain that radiated from his chest. Ribs were broken, perhaps his sternum, as well. Nausea over took any other desire, causing his gag reflex to betray him. Bile mixed with blood pooled beside his head, the stench completely overwhelming his thoughts. Blood left its metallic taste on his tongue, and putrid red stained the enamel of his teeth.

It was then that Sweets realized the severity of his injuries. He was going to die.

Suddenly, he was angry. The physical and emotional scars of his past were ripped open and peeled back like a band-aide without warning. It wasn't fair. He was going to die, after all that he had been through –hell and back. Life had cursed him, and he had been fighting his twenty-nine years in order to rectify that mistake.

And it was all going to be taken away from him.

He had been fortunate enough to be rescued by his parents. The Finleys had had believed that he was a special child, an intelligent boy who was born into this world with a purpose. They had rendered the responsibility of fixing a broken boy. Healing the open wounds that others had left was a tiring task, but they had succeeded.

Throughout his life, Sweets had been an accelerated student, graduating high school at fourteen, and later college at twenty-one. He'd made for himself two doctorates and won numerous scholarships which allowed him to write his books concerning partner relationships in the workplace. The young psychologist attributed much of his success to his adoptive parents.

But they were taken away.

Sweets had been angry then. The only people who loved him the most, and without fail, had died. The Finleys were old and ready to leave this world behind with one another in toe, however that didn't make the pain lessen.

And so Sweets had to start over; he had to build for himself a new family. At first it all seemed fleeting. A young psychologist who meddled in everyone's personal life and prodded at their secret feelings had no place at the Bureau. Few people respected him, especially Booth and Brennan.

_Oh, God… Booth. _

Sweets winced at the thought of leaving his friend alone. Of course he had Brennan, but he had just gotten out of jail. The agent currently had a difficult time trusting.

_How can I leave Booth now? He doesn't trust anyone. If I leave, will it make his situation worse? _

Then there was Brennan. If he was honest with himself, Sweets always found Brennan's slurs towards psychology endearing. Yeah, it aggravated him from time to time. Brennan –the old Brennan—was stubborn, uncompromising, distrusting, and apathetic. And though it might be his own arrogance, but Sweets liked to think that he had played some part in her growth over the years. Booth had played a larger part, but the psychologist had planted the seeds. For seven years, Sweets watched her change from the hyper-rational forensic anthropologist to a genuinely caring person. She married under Sweets' prodding, a ritual Brennan believed she would never partake in. The broken pieces of Brennan's life were only starting to come together, the façade she wore was slowly melting away.

_She'll be okay. Brennan is… hyper-rational… she-she can compartmentalize. She'll be fine. She has Booth, and Booth has Brennan. They'll be okay. They have Hodgins and Angela, Dr. Saroyan, and the squinterns…_

_Daisy…_

He felt constricted, the pain in his chest becoming unbearable. The urge to run and grab her, to kiss her, and to embrace her closeness became a burning desire. But Sweets knew that he would never have that opportunity again. He would never see her bright smile or hear her high pitched laugh. The squeal that he'd always found adorable, despite what others found to be irritating, was suddenly pounding in his ears. He was dying, leaving her behind.

Grief wracked his body, shaking his body that was anchored loosely to the pavement. Tears welled in his eyes at the thought of leaving her behind. Daisy had been his life –his love. For years, Sweets had longed for their relationship to blossom, to spiral beyond bounds… but, he had settled for the small moments they had shared together: her inappropriate, impromptu office visits; the _Saved by the Bell_ marathons; their debates between anthropology and psychology; their emoticon conversations; their karaoke competitions; and their passionate nights. And it all had just started to come together because of-

_The baby…_

Sweets lurched forward, yelping as he used the last bit of his strength attempting to sit up. The pain he felt of his bones fracturing further was nothing compared to the agony and guilt felt.

Sweets didn't want to leave his son without a father. He wanted him to have a normal childhood, different than his and Daisy's. He wanted to raise a son into a man, just like his adoptive father had raised him. It was a dream he'd had. A life he'd been building. However, circumstances had changed, and all of his hopes, all of his dreams, would vanish.

Wrapping his arms around his middle to soothe the ache, Sweets looked up with pleading eyes, past the concrete ceiling, and to the skies above, searching desperately for a God that he never believed in.

"Please," his voice was labored and filled with sorrow, "let me stay here."

Air quickly fleeing his lungs, Sweets began to cough violently. The force damaging and puncturing his lungs even more so.

Nevertheless, he continued: "Don't do it for me. Do it for my friends—my family. Please… I can't leave them, not now, not after everything."

Tears dripped involuntarily from his eyes. The dynamic pain of death was taking its toll. Bargaining and pleading were his only options now.

"Booth… he just got out of prison. Brennan…has too much on her plate… she needs my help. I shouldn't cause them worry. Daisy," he stopped, pausing to gather his strength to persevere, "Daisy is pregnant with our baby… our son… I can't leave them alone."

His eyes closed, Sweets nodded his head in acceptance. It was useless to beg. His injuries, from the pain that refused to quell, were severe. Nothing, even extensive medical care, could save him.

In the background, Sweets could hear running, frantic footsteps. Worried his assailant might be returning, he reached for his gun that had fallen to his left side during the struggle. To his immediate relief, he was able to release his pistol when Agent Aubrey presented himself from behind the bumper of a gray corolla.

"Dr. Sweets!" He exclaimed, skidding to a stop once he'd approached the psychologist.

"Agent Aubrey," Sweets acknowledged gristly, "what are you doing here?"

"I heard gun shots," he admitted quickly. "What happened? I'll call an ambulance-"

"Call Booth," he whispered urgently.

"But, Dr. Sweets-"

"Then you can call the paramedics," Sweets conceded, closing his eyes.

In the distance, Sweets could hear the muffled voice of Agent Aubrey conversing with Agent Booth, and later the urgent tone requesting medical assistance. He and Dr. Brennan weren't far from the parking garage that became a battlefield; even so, Sweets wasn't sure they'd make it in time.

A grunt of pain escaped him, as he drew his hands to his face to wipe the tears that had stained his eyes. Sweets was no longer in denial or angry that his time had come. The wounds he suffered from were no longer on his mind. Instead, he lied there counting the people he had met –the people whom he hoped would remember him.

Booth and Brennan were at the top of the list. The duo had made quite the impact on the young psychologist, and Sweets hoped he had done the same. They were practically family. After all, Sweets had stayed with them not even two years ago, after his bad break up with Daisy. They had taken him in, and Sweets had become a part of their atypical family. He had grown up under the counsel of Booth and Brennan, an ironic disposition considering Sweets was their therapist.

There was their daughter, Christine, too. Though they weren't biologically related, Sweets considered Christine to be his niece. He had taken care of her, stepped in when Booth or Brennan couldn't. He loved her.

Angela and Dr. Hodgins, and Dr. Saroyan. Sweets had touched each of them. He counseled Angela's romantic life. He understood Hodgin's anger and paranoia. He helped Cam with Michelle. Sweets had become a part of their family –the annoying kid shrink who nobody wanted, but loved endlessly.

He saved Daisy and their son for last.

Daisy had loved him, kid shrink and all. She understood his quirks, just as he had understood hers. Together, they had grown up. No longer were they kid psychologist and intern forensic anthropologist, or annoying meddler and high pitched squealer. They had matured, shaping their love along the rigid edges of imperfections. It had never been easy ride, but the heartbreak was worth it in the end. They were going to have a son. Sweets would leave his legacy behind, a piece of himself to be with Daisy and the rest of his friends always.

The world was a dangerous place. Sweets had learned this lesson from the time he was born. But, he also had experienced the good of the world –the side so inconceivably stored away. Good and evil will always coexist and always leave the scars of their presence. For this reason, Sweets hoped that he would leave his scars on the people he cared for the most.

The screeching of car tires had him reopening his eyes.

At his side seconds later was a frantic Dr. Brennan and concerned Agent Booth. Both knelt beside him in a frenzy, proposing a flurry of reassurances the psychologist knew were full of the little white lies people tell.

"Sweets, just relax; you'll be okay," came a sincere voice to his left. Relieved, Sweets shifted his gaze to Booth. His best friend had made it in time.

"Booth…"

"Yeah, I'm right here," Booth reassured fervently, before warning Sweets not to move.

Brennan's hands hastily danced along the contours of Sweets' body, examining the area for a bullet. There were no cavities leaking blood, only protuberances of bones that were mangled beneath the skin.

"He's not shot," Booth realized abruptly, his eyes glaring at Aubrey, "I thought you said there were gun shots."

"That was me," Sweets' garbled voice could be heard, the blood in his throat making it difficult to talk. "I shot him."

"You?"

"He was hit in the nasion, the philtrum, and the sternum, Booth," Brennan reported from her assessment. She reached to take his pulse again, knowing that it would probably be the last time she would feel it beating.

Sweets closed his eyes, fighting desperately through the pain to hold on. His lungs were surely almost deflated, if the blood in his mouth was any indication. And although his heart pounded with adrenaline, he knew there was not much blood left. Regardless, he strained his ears to hear the voices of his friends, the voices that would carry him on into the next world.

"Looks like massive internal trauma," Brennan whispered to Booth, "He's bleeding out, Booth."

Even in death, Sweets could still find a reason to smile. His continued observation of the dissociative, adaptive mechanism that Booth and Brennan operated under was the basis of the three's prolonged friendship. They had always excluded third parties, namely himself, from their private conversation. Death, Sweets considered, was not any different.

If anything, Sweets toyed with the idea that death brought on dissociation. He could see the look in Brennan and Booth's wide, frantic eyes. Of course they shined with denying tears, but there was also a sense of timeless efficacy that caused the world to stop. Nothing else mattered except these last few moments.

_These last few statements…_

He had so much to say, yet so little time.

"Tell Daisy not to worry," Sweets croaked, scrunching his eyes closed, "she worries too much."

Brennan peered over him, her hands still pressing into his chest, "Of course. Don't talk now, Sweets."

The psychologist brushed off her request. He needed to let them know that he had fought back; his attacker hadn't gotten away unscathed.

"I fought… I fought back," he whispered to Booth with a hint of pride, "You'd be proud." A gasp of pain broke free, and he winced trying to remain calm.

"Sweets, don't talk. Why are you talking all the time?" Booth whispered adamantly, "Bones said don't talk."

He glanced away, momentarily embarrassed: "He… He got the document."

Booth shook his head, "It doesn't matter, right now. You're gonna be fine."

Nodding, Sweets leaned further into the concrete. His friends' voices were fading into the distance, his vision blackening and losing clarity. But, he couldn't leave just yet. Booth was broken. Sweets couldn't leave without one last counsel.

"You, too," he agreed. "The world is a lot better than you think it is… it's-"

The air in his lungs finally deflated, his heart coincidentally slowed. His mouth no longer spoke words of reassurances. Instead, his subconscious raced, remembering it all—his friends, his family, and the life he had made for himself.

In the end, Sweets had led a good life. Though cruel and unfair in the beginning, the friends –his family—he had now were enough. Life was a lot better than he thought it was. All it took was death to prove him wrong.


End file.
